by Thomas Waugh
Toma thrusted the kitchen knife forward, half distracted by the coat. Marshal moved to the side but then sprang forward, quickly wrapping his jacket around the assailant’s weapon and tattooed hand. Marshal then butted his opponent on the chin, making sure not to connect with the crash helmet. The knife and coat fell to the ground, as did Toma after a knee struck him in the groin. The Romanian’s face was now contorted in agony, as if he were attempting to win a gurning competition.
Toma groaned, like a drunk laid out in the gutter. Marshal, as impassive as a stoic, picked up the knife and coat. He placed his knee on the mugger’s chest, pinning him down, and stuffed a sleeve of his jacket into his mouth.
“If you struggle or scream, I am going to slit your throat. Understand?” Marshal remarked, with more than a hint of menace, placing the edge of the blade against Toma’s neck, slick with perspiration. Marshal proceeded to cut, or carve, off the Romanian’s index finger. The same finger which had tapped out the order for Luca to rob the Englishman. Toma’s eyes widened and watered, with more than a hint of pain and terror. Blood gushed and then oozed. The gory digit appeared forlorn and lonely on the road, like a corpse abandoned on a battlefield.
“If I see you in the area again, I will cut off your hand. Understand?”
Marshal could not be sure if his victim was nodding his head, or writhing in torment.
“Put pressure on the wound and elevate,” he added. Toma could not be sure if his assailant was being sincere in his advice - or mocking him. It might have been both.
Luca stirred. Marshal removed Toma’s crash helmet, walked over and brutally smashed it into the thug’s face, without pause or ceremony – like a man going about his business. He broke his nose, again – splitting open the gash even more. Luca blacked out. As much as adrenaline coursed through his body – more toxic or addictive than nicotine or alcohol – Marshal kept a level head. A twinge of regret flickered in his expression, however, when he noticed how blood had spurted upon the paperback, which still hung out of his jacket pocket. Marshal collected up the coat, knife, and the Romanians’ wallets. He noticed a curtain twitch in a second-floor window, but it could have just been the wind.
Marshal took his leave, to the sound of Toma either mumbling curses or whimpering. Luca lay on the road like a large piece of refuse, waiting to be scraped-up and taken away. A train rumbled overhead, like rolling thunder, as the heavens opened.
Rain splattered against Marshal’s face, but he barely noticed – his expression as unmoved as a stone effigy, a death mask. Thankfully, the heavy rain washed the blood from his hands. There was also a small cut on his knuckle, from where his fist had connected with his opponent’s teeth. Once he disposed of the coat, knife and, irritatingly, the stained paperback, Marshal thought of Grace and permitted himself an almost imperceptible smile.
How was your night? xx Grace texted, as he reached his apartment building on Amelia St.
Marshal replied:
Uneventful. Xx
3.
Marshal slept fitfully. The encounter with the Romanians still prickled in his thoughts, like static. He could not say whether he had enjoyed punishing his attackers, but he was satisfied. The only regret Marshal experienced was that he had not tortured or frightened the thugs enough, considering how much suffering they had heaped upon others. Weighing their crimes against their punishment, had he not been too merciful? Or Marshal failed to sleep because of the infernal heat, as irritating and stinging as a swarm of bees. A fan helped. But not enough. He still craved the warmth of the figure who often slept on the other side of the bed. A couple of nights ago he found himself spraying the bedroom with Grace’s perfume, to remind himself of her. When he woke in the middle of the night, for the second time, Marshal started to read a book she had recommended – The Heart is a Lonely Hunter – to be closer to her.
He woke up late, telling himself that the dull ache in his stomach was hunger – but it still lingered after breakfast. Marshal went for a jog, but he could not outrun the dull ache either. It stuck to him, like barnacles on the bottom of a boat, creating drag. He noted how he had forgotten about his stomach cramps, or they were absent, during his encounter with the Romanians.
Both men turned up on time, at the same time, as they met one another outside the Albert pub, on Gladstone St. It had been six months since Marshal had last seen Jack “Nails” Foster, but he appeared several years older since their previous encounter. His handlebar moustache, a hangover from his time in the special forces, had turned into an unkempt beard. His shirt and trousers looked like they had received a cursory iron, or none at all, from a cricket bat. A faded tattoo of a bulldog brandished his forearm. His skin was leathery, his eyes more red-rimmed than normal from drinking too much cheap, or expensive, whisky.
The orphan had grown up in a foster home in South Wales. The army offered him a home at seventeen, however. He joined the Paras and served in Northern Ireland in the early eighties. Foster was a good soldier who was capable of turning aggression on and off like a light switch. He knew when to follow orders – and when to interpret or ignore them. The SAS beckoned. Having conditioned himself on the Brecon Beacons for half his life, no one was surprised when the determined Para passed SAS selection. His regiment changed, but his posting didn’t. Foster served in Border Country. “Shoot to kill, or don’t shoot at all,” was his motto. When Foster lost a couple of brothers-in-arms during the Troubles he was more determined than ever to hunt down the IRA. The terrorists. The gangsters. He would laugh – or offer up a chilling, murderous look – if anyone described the enemy as “freedom fighters”. The gnarled soldier could be casually racist. But, in his defence, he could be casually sexist too. Foster turned his black, scabrous sense of humour on himself as much as others. The priapic soldier had been married two times. Once to a barmaid, once to an airline stewardess.
“I blame them for being foolish enough to marry me. But I can forgive them for being wise enough to ask for a divorce,” Foster once explained to Marshal, after drinking half of bottle of Talisker.
The damaged soldier had a son and daughter from his first marriage. He gave his children plenty of money, but little time or affection.
Marshal was introduced to Foster through his grandfather, who also served in the Regiment. The SAS was formed from “the sweepings of the public schools and prisons.” Foster came from the latter, his grandfather remarked, but was no less a soldier for it. The age gap between the two men proved no barrier for their friendship. Foster took the Para under his wing – and often took him to the pub or Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge. They were akin to each other’s AA sponsor, except that when one fancied a drink then the other would be there for them by travelling to the nearest watering hole. When Foster left the army, he signed up as a mercenary – and when Marshal’s contract ended out in Iraq, he joined the veteran in Somalia. The two men had drunk together, laughed together, suffered together - and killed together. On more than one occasion, Foster had called Marshal his “brother”. And every six months or so the brothers caught-up with one another over a beer or two. Or ten.
Marshal noticed how his friend took a pointed look behind him, after they shook hands, before entering the pub. Foster also surveyed the patrons of the bar, casting his eye over them as if he were running a security sweep. Marshal was tempted to reassure his companion that the few people drinking at the pub during the afternoon were regulars. Jason and Michelle sat in one corner. Jason was a former signalman on the railways. His nickname would have been “sicknote”, due to the amount of time he had off - if his colleagues were not scared of him. Jason now owned a fish and chip shop, as well as a few other business interests, in Uxbridge. He sometimes claimed, after a few drinks, that it was the best fish and chip shop in West London. After a few more, he might boast that it was the best in the whole of the capital. When sober, however, he would concede that it was the second best in Uxbridge. Jason would always argue, sober or otherwise, that Michelle was his better
half. She had saved him from himself. Jason could grow bored easily, but he never grew bored with Michelle. They shared a similar sense of humour – and a just love of cigarettes and alcohol. Even after all these years, Michelle still looked adoringly at Jason – when she wasn’t distracted by various messages on her smartphone. They were good together, greater than the sum of their parts.
Sitting down, opposite Jason and Michelle, were Terry and Chris -Elephant & Castle’s answer to Gilbert and George. Both were over sixty, although their ages listed on Facebook said differently. Both were dressed in smart suits, replete with pocket squares. They sported the same Kenny Rogers beard and wore similar Yasser Arafat-like scarves decorously draped around their necks and shoulders. Terry was a renowned pantomime actor. “Oh no he isn’t,” his friends would joke. Chris was a lecturer at the nearby university, who toiled tirelessly in avoiding doing any real work. He licked his lips and rubbed his hands when he spoke of his imminent retirement – and securing his pension pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They were a sweet, fun couple who finished each other’s sentences and groomed one another by picking crumbs from their beards and fluff off their lapels.
Marshal bid hello to everyone and left a drink in the pump for the regulars and the staff, Molly and Kiara, who were working the day shift. Both men, out of habit or training, chose to sit with their backs to the wall. Foster glanced up and creased his brow in scrutiny every time someone entered or exited the pub. The veteran gulped down his first pint and appeared preoccupied when ordering some food. Before Marshal could ask his friend what was bothering him, he received the answer:
“This might be the last time you see me for a while, lad. I’ve been fucked. And not in a good way,” Foster said, after Kiara served them their second pint and brought over a few non-vegetarian starters. His voice resembled a piece of bark which had been soaked in whisky for twenty years. When Foster laughed, he cackled. “Remember how I once told you about the shooting at the graveyard? Well, some fucking journalist, Hector Toynbee, got hold of a cache of documents at the Ministry of Defence and has written about it. He’s outed incidents of Paras and the Regiment shooting the enemy – and named names. I read the piece of leftist propaganda. Thatcher’s Willing Executioners. The book’s not even fit to wipe my arse with. He makes a meal of Bobby Sands – and compares Martin McGuiness to Gandhi and Garibaldi, which takes the biscuit.”
Marshal remembered the incident – the killing – and Foster’s account of the event. It was the mid-eighties. Special Branch had heard from one of their touts. A couple of IRA foot-soldiers were due to drive at night to an old cemetery, just outside of Ballymena, to collect a cache of Armalite rifles hidden in an empty grave. Foster was part of the SAS squad tasked with staking out the graveyard. Halfway through the night the two IRA operatives turned up in a battered Land Rover. The squad’s orders were to apprehend the enemy and avoid engagement if possible. The operatives could prove a valuable source of intelligence. The threat of prison, coupled with financial incentives, could turn even the most fanatical Provo into a compliant informer.
Foster was charged to break cover and confront the enemy, bellowing out instructions for the two men to drop any weapons and raise their hands. It was dark. Thick cloud smothered out the moonlight. Patrick Toohey, the senior of the two IRA operatives, let off a couple of rounds from a Browning pistol and retreated towards the Land Rover, in hope of making his escape. Foster’s colleagues gave chase. The overweight Toohey became breathless, or fell over, before reaching the vehicle. He dropped his weapon and surrendered. In the meantime, Foster repeated his order for the second IRA operative, Finn Mullen, to relinquish his weapon. In the darkness, the shovel Mullen was carrying resembled a rifle. He turned towards the British soldier, still holding the spade in two hands, at waist level. Foster opened fire. Three rounds to the chest. Shoot to kill, or don’t shoot at all.
It turned out that Finn Mullen was only sixteen years old – and the eldest child of John Mullen, an IRA Brigade Commander. The rabble-rousing Mullen – he had once been called, as a compliment or otherwise, a “Catholic Reverend Paisley” – demanded justice. Two days after the killing at the graveyard a Paratrooper was gunned down outside a pub, as the young recruit was making his way back to the barracks. Officially Mullen denied any involvement in the reprisal killing. Unofficially, he boasted that the murder would just be the start of a bloodbath.
The authorities conducted an investigation into the events at the cemetery. The unnamed soldier was exonerated, and it was judged to be a just killing. Information was leaked to the press, pre-empting the official findings. Finn Mullen had been carrying a Webley pistol in his waistband at the time of his death. Ballistics linked the pistol to the murder of an RUC officer, from a year previous. Also, a week before the shooting, it was reported that Finn Mullen, along with four other friends, had assaulted a Protestant youth and gang-raped his girlfriend.
Initially Patrick Toohey testified that the soldiers were aware that his friend was unarmed. They were just on a drunken night out, looking to scare each other. “We just wanted to see what a dead body looked like,” Toohey protested, somewhat ironically. He soon changed his testimony, however, when confronted with evidence which contradicted his statement.
John Mullen purchased a new black, solemn suit and went before the cameras, claiming that the British were guilty of covering up their war crimes. The soldier was guilty of murdering his son in cold blood. Executing him. “My baby boy did not own a gun. It was a plant… Patrick Toohey’s testimony was coerced. Or a deal was done. His sentence will be reduced. I guarantee it. It was an unlawful killing, by an unlawful occupying force… My son was an altar boy, a wee angel. He was a good Catholic, but being a good Catholic seems to be a crime in this country… There should be a public trial, not some farce of an enquiry behind closed doors where students get to mark their own homework. The truth must out. Murder will out. These special forces dogs have been let off the leash and given a licence to kill… I deserve to know the name of the man who butchered my flesh and blood. No name, no justice. No name, no justice.”
John Mullen was interviewed by a host of newspapers and took to the airwaves, to lobby the authorities to release the name of the soldier. A group of Labour Party MPs raised urgent questions in parliament to support the campaign. The tragedy, if it could have been called such, made John Mullen a household name. The press soon spoke of a triumvirate of Adams, McGuiness and Mullen. Marshal considered how Mullen would have been the Lepidus of the three. But the army closed ranks and refused to cave into pressure from the media to disclose the name and review their policies.
Several years ago, over a few drinks, poolside at a villa in Malaga, Foster offered up his version of events to Marshal:
“I was ninety percent sure that he was carrying a shovel. But the light, or darkness, can play tricks on you. I was not about to let the bastard shoot at me, or one of my brothers… I knew, having heard his voice, that he was young. But a sixteen-year-old killer is still a killer. There were few innocents during the Troubles. You were more likely to find a leprechaun walking the streets of Belfast, shopping for a lid for his pot of gold… There isn’t a soldier I know who wouldn’t have made the same choice. You know the score. Kill or be killed.”
Marshal appreciated his friend’s jokes about Sands and McGuiness, but he refrained from laughing. The issue of a journalist exposing various British soldiers was serious. Deadly serious. Names were redacted or changed for a reason in reports, which covered shooting incidents during the Troubles. The peace agreement in Northern Ireland did not mean that all participants, on both sides, were keen on forgiving and forgetting.
“Mullen may have crossed the floor, from terrorist to politician, since the Good Friday agreement - but he will still be baying for my blood. I would be the same if I found out that he shot my boy. Mullen says he’s not linked to any paramilitary organisations anymore, but he’s still close to the IRA, like white on rice. I’d prefer
not to be in that bastard’s crosshairs. Some oik at the MOD called me, after the book had been out for a week, to say that “the publication might be cause for concern.” No shit, Sherlock. Apparently, the MOD are intending to sue the publishers and have them remove the book from publication. But the horse has already bolted – and could trample me underfoot. I’ve not been this worried since I was waiting on my last divorce settlement,” Foster remarked, although even his black sense of humour failed to lighten his mood. “I always suspected that my past might catch up with me. I don’t regret getting blood on my hands. It was either them or us. But I did some things that I would rather not tell my children about. Not that they must think much of their father anyway… Border Country was like the Wild West, back then. We were the cowboys, and they were the Indians - except that instead of carrying bows and arrows they were armed with Armalite rifles and Semtex.”
“Are you okay? Do you need help with anything?” Marshal asked, perturbed by how his friend’s past had caught up with him and turned his world upside down. He recognised his friend’s anxious look. He had seen it, in the mirror. Marshal had looked over his shoulder, more than once, after dealing with the Albanians. If any of the remaining members of the gang had found out that Marshal had been responsible for assassinating the enforcer Viktor Baruti and planting weapons in the club they worked out of, the Albanians would have hunted Marshal down and killed him without hesitation. There were days, during the first couple of months after taking out his enemy, when Marshal carried his Glock 21 around with him. He was marginally more worried about encountering his enemy than Grace finding the weapon on his person or in his flat. The ex-soldier felt like he was conducting an illicit affair with the gun at times.
“No, I am fine on that front. But I appreciate the offer. Your grandfather would be proud of you. You’re a good lad. For all of the bravado around not one step back and no retreat, no surrender, I’ve decided to disappear. Better to be safe than sorry. A friend of mine has offered me use of his villa in Portugal. Perhaps I’ll finally bow to the inevitable and take up golf. The plan will be to find a senorita to put up with me enough during the night so that she will stay and cook me breakfast in the morning. I will also get in touch sooner or later and invite you and Grace over. We both know how dull peace and retirement are. I would rather get shot than die of boredom. Or if you visit without Grace, you could have even more fun.”